


Denier

by Awrble, LazyBaker



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Crossdressing, Fanart, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Season 2, Stockings, Virgin Billy Hargrove, nylons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26415466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awrble/pseuds/Awrble, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/pseuds/LazyBaker
Summary: Steve Harrington keeps staring at Billy.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 33
Kudos: 350





	Denier

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the amazing [Awrble](http://awrble.tumblr.com)  
> 

  
  
  


Steve Harrington keeps staring at Billy.

It’s been a hot minute since the fight, the blackout, the goddamn needle in his _goddamn neck_ and Billy’s expecting the punch any second now. Break a guy’s face, it’s only fair he’d want some retribution. Billy still can’t turn his head left without his neck going haywire. Another round with The King’s more than welcome.

Steve corners him in the locker room. Billy’s hanging around, taking his time getting The Curl to his hair just right. Gets a few half-assed comments thrown his way from guys who can barely manage to wipe their asses.

Billy flips them off. It’s not his problem they can’t get a chick interested. It’s not hard. It’s the easiest thing Billy doesn’t ever want to do.

Steve comes up behind him with a towel over his shoulder. His footsteps drag. Not overeager, not rushed, not stomping with the kind of rage that packs a punch. Not skipping and tossing daisies, either.

Billy turns around slow, his back to the mirror, gripping the sink with both hands, adrenaline a hot rush under his skin. He licks his lips and tastes Steve’s blood and the tang of medicine slathered on Steve’s face, giving his skin a slick shine to it, freshly waxed over scabs, the scent’s strong and Steve’s so fucking close, the closest they’ve been face-to-face since that crack house where Billy found out Steve’s not just a has-been.

Steve works the one inch difference in their heights, leaning on the balls of his feet so Billy _has_ to crank his neck back. He looks down his newly-bent nose at Billy for a long stretched out while, breathing soft through his mouth, hair wet and dripping down his neck, darkening his shirt. He’s hot with a fat lip. Makes his already cocksucker lips look just-been rawed. Billy meets those pretty brown eyes turned swollen and busted red with a challenge.

Steve wears Billy’s signature better than any prep or geek on the west coast ever has.

This taut empty space that’s crackling with pent up electricity is where Steve’s supposed to say, _hey, asshole_ and knock Billy’s teeth in. Get the ball rolling. Give him the first shot so Billy can let loose.

Billy juts his chin to the side, offering himself. Cocked and loaded, Steve just needs to pull the trigger.

What Steve does is pinch a couple of Billy’s curls and wind them around his finger.

“You’re pretty. _Huh_.” Steve tells him, serious. Surprised by whatever he’s just figured out. Watches Billy’s hair bounce back straight faced. Lingers so he can see the words hit, drop, and stick to Billy’s gut with a hot flare of confusion and a dry, choking swallow.

—

The next day. The next game. Steve stays on Billy hot and heavy. Won’t let Billy pass the ball or try for a shot. Steve’s skins. Billy’s shirts. Billy elbows Steve to get him to back off. Yesterday’s clawing at Billy’s insides. Replaying in his head. Steve curls his hair around his finger. Calls him pretty. Straight laced. If he’s joking, it flies over Billy’s head. Could be a local hazing thing. Could be.

Since Steve’s lost a Nancy Wheeler’s worth of prissy hang ups, he’s quicker, doesn’t trip over his own feet or pussy foot around anymore, he pushes back against Billy just as hard and barrels through Billy’s hit to sweat all over his backside. He’s fired up today while Billy’s dragging. Distracted.

Steve’s mouth grazes the back of Billy’s neck. His breath slams soft on Billy’s ear, steaming up Billy’s vision. Whispers, “You got a nice mouth, Hargrove.” and steals the ball. Throws a glance over his shoulder that says nothing Billy understands.

—

English is a breeze. It’s the class Billy likes the most. He doesn’t have to try. Can just kick back and zone out. Cobb drones on about Macbeth. Billy’s read every book this class covers already. Catholic school in San Diego had been his punishment for getting expelled twice. The nuns were sadists sporting a ruler and a cross, but they’ve put Billy a mile ahead of Hawkins High, freeing up his time to stare out the window onto the parking lot and concentrate on the boy behind him—Billy’s got the runner-up golden spot sitting in front of Steve Harrington.

English is his second favorite class for a reason.

He can smell Steve’s hairspray. Can sniff out the days he wears cologne—means he’s got a _date_. Listens to him struggling to write every essay. He mumbles the reading to himself because _silent reading_ means _just read out loud real quiet_. When Billy passes him back whatever new worksheet the old bat’s thought up, _sometimes_ their fingers touch for a star-bursting second that carries Billy straight through to his favorite class where he gets the privilege of watching Steve soap up.

Billy listens close to Steve turning the page in his book. Erasing something in his notes. Cobb’s asking what the motifs in the _literature_ are and throws in _this will be on your final exam_.

Billy’s got this covered thanks to Sister Agatha and his own mom gone by the wayside— _women are crazy bitches_.

Something tugs on the back of his head.

At his hair.

Billy stills. Holds his breath, about to snap his one pencil in half.

Steve’s pulling his _hair_ in the middle of class. He lets go. Grabs the same lock of hair again. Pulls. Lets go. Does it a couple more times. Would feel nice if there weren’t twenty other people around them. If it wasn’t broad daylight. If they weren’t in Indiana. If Steve _liked_ him.

Billy stiffens, back creaking, muscles tensing to do _something_ , trying to think through the questions to what _exactly_ he should go about doing, what Steve’s trying to get him to do, if murdering Steve Harrington will make Billy’s inclinations as obvious as they feel sometimes.

Then Steve reaches under his own desk and slips something small into Billy’s back-pocket and it’s only when class is over and Steve’s gone the opposite direction and Billy’s stumbling over his locker combination, thrown off, heady with thoughts he doesn’t want, that he looks—a folded up twenty with _cafeteria next period_ written in dull pencil over Andrew Jackson’s giant forehead.

—

It’s no secret Billy wants out of Hawkins. That his dad’s a piece of shit. Word spreads fast around a small town when Billy’s not shy about the bull he’s gotta live with.

Hawkins is shit. Neil is shittier. Billy wants out. Those are the facts and everyone’s got a pretty enough picture to get it and get out of his way.

Billy’s picked up on one of his old _under the table_ side businesses he had back home and starts writing college essay for the lazy fucks who have daddy funding their upcoming tuitions. English teachers used to tell him he’s got a bright future before Billy showed them he’s not looking to be complimented and fawned over by someone on salary to do it. He’d rather get paid himself.

It’s not as fun as stripping cars with Cid and Wayne and carting the parts off to the local chop shop, but it’s a good enough gig, brings in some cash to pay for his gas and smokes and booze and a couple extras when his stash is running low—the rest is tucked away for his big trip back west.

Billy’s practical. He’s got a plan. He’s got a goal. He’s deadset on accomplishing it or he’s gonna put the lead down and drive headfirst into one of the billion trees here turning his brain to mush.

Either way, by the time graduation swings around, Billy’s checking out of Hawkins for good.

Nothing’s gonna slow him down, not even The King with a mouth Billy wants to get to know better.

Billy skips out on chemistry and finds Steve smoking at the back of the cafeteria. Hair loose. Tall. Lean. Cut. Bruised. Banged up and eve more handsome in his winter coat than the first time Billy saw him dressed in all black at the Halloween shindig.

Billy grabs Steve by the front of his jacket and slams his back into the wall, grabs him by the neck and holds him there, the _thud_ his body makes is solid and satisfying, he can feel the steady rhythm of Steve’s pulse, the softness of his skin, the slight bumps of his moles, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a quick huff.

Steve’s not pushing back this time. He blows smoke in Billy’s face.

“You done or?” Steve says. Takes another drag, reaching around Billy’s arm and his hand to get his cig between his pouty lips while Billy squeezes just a little tighter to make it clear who’s in charge. He inhales. Billy feels it. He offers Billy his smoke.

Billy snarls. He takes it. Rips it out of his hand. Bites the end. Sucks it down. Doesn’t give it back. _Fuck him_.

Steve leans into the wall like he hadn’t just been forced to meet it, goes with the pressure of Billy’s hold. His fucked up eyes are steady, not a hiccup or a jump or uncertainty being this close to Billy—just like his pulse, he’s dead-eyed calm.

Billy replays the last few days. The fight too. Picks everything Steve’s done apart with what he knows about him. Tries to figure out what angle Steve’s trying for and what the hell he _means_ and can’t think much past the panicked heat rushing to his head and it makes his fingers twitchy, makes him squeeze harder. Billy’d been sure he was playing it cool.

A couple feelers to check the temperature shouldn’t have given him away.

 _There’s nothing to give away_.

“Did I get the price right?” Steve says.

"Depends on what you’re trying for.”

“I know you write essays, this isn’t any different. So how much?”

He’s cocky. Thinks he knows something Billy’s got locked down tight. Isn’t shaking in his Nike sneakers. Billy digs his thumb into Steve’s cool motherfucker heartbeat.

“For what?”

“For whatever I want.”

“And that’s? What?”

Steve cocks his head. His hair’s soft when it brushes the back of Billy’s hand.

“I wanna see your legs in nylon.”

Billy laughs. Shakes his head. It’s funny. If it’s not funny, it hits too close to home, it’s terrifying and just on the edge of getting the life beat out of him—so it’s gotta be funny and it is.

He let’s go of Steve’s neck, his pale skin’s splotchy red in the shape of his hand.

“The fuck’s that mean?” Billy blows smoke out of his nose. Takes the last puff and crushes the butt under his heel. Keeps up the smile. Makes it sharp so he’ll be able to bite Steve’s head clean off.

Steve heaves himself off the wall hips first. Ambles his way into Billy’s space, cool and confident, he’s the guy at the Halloween party, the guy Tommy can’t stop gushing over, the guy Billy’s heard _so much about_. He’s back to being top dog and knows it and Billy may have the advantage in brawn, but he doesn’t have what Steve was born with naturally.

Steve presses two fingers to Billy’s chest. Right in the middle. Right where he’d pushed at Billy before Billy figured out Steve Harrington’s not playing the same game. Knocks him over breathless and it’s determination keeping Billy on his feet.

Steve drags his fingers down Billy’s chest to his belt buckle in one, long and firm stroke. Billy’s stomach jumps. In a second he’s hard, twitching and ready to bust as soon as Steve gives him the go ahead.

But Steve’s playing docile, sweet faced and never did no wrong with no secrets to his name. He’s got the looks and the position to lie all he wants. Never did pay a boy to wear nylons for him—never Steve Harrington.

“So?” Steve’s head lolls to the right, dips just that much to make them on even ground, jostles Billy’s belt buckle and his knuckles push against Billy’s stomach. “Was I too high or too low?”

“Low.” Billy grunts.

“By how much?”

“A grand.”

Steve smiles at him. The first one Billy’s ever gotten from him. Real or not. The line’s blurred. Those dimples are all his.

“ _Okay._ ” Steve says full of sugar. Dips his fingers behind Billy’s belt and pulls, tugs at him, not moving him, just sending the message. “But how much for me?”

—

 _I’m no fag_ , loses it’s meaning after too many times saying it. Just like _you’re dead_.

The follow through’s the important part.

Billy’s a fuck up, likes to feel a guy’s bones snap, but he hasn’t crossed the line just yet.

Either of them.

“A hundred bucks.” Steve says. Offers up the number without blinking. A spoiled rich boy bankrolled by daddy, spending his allowance on whatever tickles him in the moment. “I know you’re saving up to leave, so, _like_ , what’s the harm, y’know?”

Steve Harrington gets with a new girl every day. Billy sees him between classes, at lunch, after school, he’s shed the pansy loyal boyfriend schtick and slipped right back into being The King, the preppy jock who ran the whole school before giving it all up for the princess who didn’t want the happily ever after he was promising.

Billy likes this version better. It’s harder to envision the boring future where Steve’s married right out of school with a desk job and two kids and another on the way losing all this fire that made him interesting when Billy hears how Steve skipped out on class to fuck Stacy in the ass in the girl’s locker room.

Billy has three classes with Wheeler. She’s an AP bitch. He doesn’t get the appeal, but he does get—has gotten it through his own thick head—that whatever Steve sees in that tiny upbeat body, he sure as shit doesn’t see in Billy.

There’s no explanation Billy can figure out.

 _Billy in pantyhose_.

It’s a joke. It’s gotta be a joke. It _has_ to be. Billy doesn’t get this close to what he wants this easy. Not when he’s in Indiana and not when it’s Steve Harrington.

“I’m thinking black.“ Steve tells him. Hands him two twenties and a ten. Makes it real with hard cash. He’s as stupid as anyone says. Gorgeous face, dumb as a brick, and the biggest dick in the tri-state area.

Billy pockets the money. Half up front. Half after. It’s just practical.

—

It’s after dark. Billy slips out of his bedroom window to park three houses down from Steve’s house and sit for ten minutes in the winter cold listening to Van Halen, nursing his cig, and debating whether or not he should go inside and if he does, would any of this be worth the trouble. Imagines scenarios where Tommy and a couple other guys are waiting in the closet to jump him.

Steve’s set this up to fuck Billy over somehow, he just can’t figure out the details. Makes him twitchy. Billy eyes the second floor windows. The lights are on. One of them is Steve’s bedroom.

He’s pictured himself in that room. A lot. Gets hot thinking about the color of Steve’s bedsheets.

He showered. Curled his hair perfectly. Got the cologne out. Put on his nicest clothes. Readied himself for something that’s not gonna happen.

Billy touches his lips. Bites his nail, chews it clean off. Licks the pad of his finger to taste nicotine and sweat.

He’s had a lot of _almosts._

Wayne when they were both blitzed off a couple poppers and Wayne’s Boston accent had been _kind of hot_ for all of two minutes instead of an earwig scrabbling around inside his skull. The guy who manages the chop shop—R.J.—had a tiger tattoo on his arm and sweat like it was always the middle of summer and just the stink of him got Billy wet. The nameless guys at bars Billy would use his fake-ID to get into and then end up fighting instead of fucking because it was easier to punch a man than kiss him. The nights early on when the idea of being _like this_ had him running to find a girl to take somewhere quiet and then chicken out, pissed off at himself, because he wasn’t hard for _her_.

Billy wipes his palms on his jeans. Finishes off his smoke and flicks it out the window onto the street. Rings the doorbell and wants to run when Ma Harrington answers. Gets invited inside to share a sit-down dinner with the family and it’s more than enough to get him backing out the door, rethinking all this, it’s too much for what’s likely gonna be the biggest mistake he’s ever gonna make in Hawkins. It already is.

Steve swoops in with an arm around Billy’s shoulders and rushes him upstairs. Tells his parents to save him a plate. _Billy’s just dropping by to copy some notes_. Keeps his arm around Billy up to the second floor, to his room, his hand drops to Billy’s lower back and Billy’s—Billy eyes the closet. Rips it open. Checks the _bathroom_ connected to Steve’s bedroom. Finds nada.

He should be relieved.

He’s not.

“Paranoid much?” Steve says behind him because he wants Billy to pop him in the face _again_ and Billy’s fist is clenched tight around a whole lifetime of watching his back. “Here. I guessed your size. I got a couple extras if those don’t work.”

Steve brandishes a plastic pack of dark pantyhose. The cover has a smiling blonde woman on it. Billy wants to toss the pack out the window and then himself. The only thing stopping him being the fall wouldn’t be enough to put him down and give him an out of whatever he’s gotten himself into.

He can’t even appreciate knowing Steve’s sheets are plaid.

Before Billy takes the pack, he says, “You tell anyone about this and you’re dead.”

Steve’s nonplussed. Annoyingly chill. “Right back at you, Hargrove.”

—

Nylon isn’t made for dick.

It’s made for chicks and pervs. Guys like Steve with too much money who’re too big of a freak to get off to normal shit.

They’re not made for Billy or his dick or his balls or any other part of his body that’s getting well acquainted with the stretch and shimmer of pantyhose. They’re snug, painted onto him with that first stretch up, touching every inch of him he didn’t even know he _had_. It’s soft on all of him.

He stands in front of the mirror in Steve’s room, barefoot, boots kicked off along with his jeans to the corner by the door—gotta plan for his exit.

Billy looks himself over. Pulls his shirt up to see the darker lining up top that covers his navel. Traces the curve of his ass with his hand, turns around to see it. The way his legs look different this smooth in this color.

Everything is so _snug_.

He feels naked seeing himself like this. He’s gone pink without knowing. Heated up. Turned out. His reflection’s not Billy Hargrove. Not anywhere close to a woman. He looks like the kind of faggot Neil thinks he is and he gets hard, his erection making a telling bump up front any idiot would be able to see so he drops his shirt. Puts his jacket back on too. Eyes his jeans with his heart in his throat.

Downstairs, Steve’s parents are laughing. Steve’s shuffling around outside the door, wants to experience some _reveal_. In the trashcan hidden under the desk are photos of Nancy Wheeler unshredded, lovingly set down and _almost_ covered with some wadded up tissue.

Billy’s deciding if the window’s his best option after all.

—

Billy’s standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed and his legs spread wide, feet planted, tense like he’s about to brawl, but it’s _just_ Steve. Steve standing with his back to the door, eyeing him up and down no higher than Billy’s white t-shirt, his face blooming pretty. He licks his lips and Billy wants to smack him with the back of his hand.

“Seriously.” Steve says, eyes heavy and blown out. Walks over to Billy slow with his thumbs hooked in his pockets. “You’ve got some solid gams, Hargrove.”

It’s the dumbest thing anyone’s said to Billy’s face. He lights up. Burns. Blushes with rage that makes the sun dim.

“I’ll knock your balls in.”

“And I’d _really_ love to see you try in those.” Steve says simply. The dumbest pervert of the midwest. “You can sit if you want.”

Steve gestures at his bed without glancing away. Plaid sheets with white pillows—Billy’s hard pressed to think he’ll be remembering those important details fondly.

Billy tilts his chin up, jaw squared and clenched to combat with the red all over him and the want still throbbing stubborn between his legs. Ready for Steve to start laughing, geared up for the humiliations that come with being a queer in the room of the boy he likes who hates him back, for the punchline to hit so Billy can forget about the _almosts_ percolating on his temple, down the back of his neck, and pound Steve’s face in a second time.

Billy stays put.

Steve _does_ laugh.

Billy starts, proved right just like he knew he’d be.

This _is_ a joke.

Steve doesn’t like him.

Billy knows damn well Steve’s got the lowest opinion of him, why the fuck would he when the only people who _do_ like Billy are pieces of shit and Steve’s the golden boy of Hawkins High, The King, and Billy’s—Billy’s just jackshit, just dirt clinging to his heel—

Steve kneels.

Hits the carpet with two soft _thumps_ and his hands touch Billy’s bare thighs with only thin nylon keeping him from feeling the full brunt of Steve’s warm calloused fingers, his wide palm on his skin. Steve’s eyes stay tacked onto Billy, lips quirking up at Billy’s slack jaw.

Billy’s not expecting it. Steve on his knees for him. Breath on his cock that’s never been this hard in his entire life. He stumbles back, out of Steve’s hands, back of his knees hitting the bed and go out on him. He falls backwards and is hasty to grab the front of his shirt and tug it down, staring in shock at Steve and his growing smug grin.

“That’s better, right? Told you so.” Steve tells him.

Steve’s the worst of the worst. The rock bottom breeder with a vendetta. He shuffles forward on the carpet and Billy stops breathing, his heart goes still as Steve puts his hands on Billy’s knees.

Billy can’t think.

“Never thought you’d play hard to get, Hargrove. It’s not like you didn’t know what you were getting into.”

Steve nudges at Billy’s knees. Billy keeps them closed, his wrist caught between his thighs, his hand flat on the bed behind him, keeping himself up to glare at the real genuine grin reaching Steve’s eyes. Flashing those dimples and bright whites has gotten Steve everything money won’t.

Steve pouts, bottom lip juts out red and pretty, still sewing itself back together. Billy’s gotten off to biting those lips bloody again, sucking on them till they’re spit shined and swollen.

“Eat shit.” Billy snaps. Teeth bared in a mean snarl. Tenses his thighs more, locks his knees together.

“Only if you smile and open up for me.” Steve says and leans forward and Billy leans back, not about to let Steve witness his nerves going loopy, close to slipping and flying out of Billy’s control. “Or is that extra?”

“You wanna die?”

“Definitely not. Just wanna feel you up a little, if that’s okay? I mean, it is. I did pay.” Steve plucks at the nylons, sighs _happy_ and rubs his hands up and down the outsides of Billy’s thighs, his knees, down to his calves and Billy twitches, leaks, he’s making a mess inside these things and he’s gonna have to steal’m and burn’m before Steve notices.

Steve presses his cheek to Billy’s knee, his breath and his _face_ is so hot and alive and all of Billy’s inflamed, ready to bolt, to come, to shoot off in every fucking way there is for a guy like him.

Steve’s made it damn clear that if he can’t come in, he’s gonna make do and softly break Billy down.

He’s insane. Billy’s knocked the marbles right out of his head, no other way about it, the only explanation for this that fits.

Rage sits under his skin, warms him up to get through the day, pushes him to keep walking and breathing, to sit back and wait for the right moment to let go knowing there’s not gonna _be_ a right moment, only something that pisses him off just enough at the wrong time.

Steve’s too pleased with himself. Happy and smug and rich and everything Billy hates.

Steve laughs and his hand is on Billy’s other knee and that searing, lifelong rage filling up his veins gets shot dead on arrival to spike Billy’s nerves, skin prickling, heating up as Steve slides his hands up and down his thighs and hums, soft noises coming out of him, forgetting Billy’s disdain as he lifts Billy’s calf and nuzzles the nylon, presses his nose to Billy’s muscles and sighs, _baby_.

Billy’s breath shakes out of him, his heart skips from his chest and onto his sleeve to watch Steve rub his face against his leg and moan straight from the gut like he’s got the whole house to himself and his parents aren’t just downstairs, waiting for their son to finish up with his classmate and come eat dinner. Sounds just like when Billy’s popped him in the jaw.

Steve mouths wet at the nylon, his spit soaks through to Billy’s skin and Billy can feel it. The wet, slick heat of his mouth, the hot exhale from his nose, the scruff on his chin. Holds up Billy’s leg, admiring it nakedly.

He’s got big hands, this sure hold on Billy telling him neither of them are going anywhere, he’s got more to collect for the money he’s doling out and Billy’s wanting and drenched slick cock pushes against the nylon, constricted in the tight fabric that gives him no room, just holds him _tight_ , his erection pressing to his belly, rubbing against the nylon and the back of his wrist with every stuttered out breath that’s taken as silently as possible punched out of him while Steve noses and nuzzles and nips at his legs, up and up. Hands everywhere. Pulsing and heated, pulling and pushing the tight nylon, at Billy without thought, only going off of his own needs and wants.

There’s no lying back and taking it and pretending he’s not here for this, that Steve Harrington touching him means _nothing_.

Billy’s lying on his back _somehow_. Blinked and he’s staring up at the ceiling with one hand fisting the sheets. Neil’s lurking in his head, ramming his way to the quiet of Steve’s room, through the thick fog that’s got Billy lightheaded, that has his grip on his shirt going a little lax, _men aren’t supposed to like this kind of shit, not my son, not you_.

Billy turns his head and sniffs at the sheets, smelling _Steve_.

“You’re a fuckin’ freak.” Billy bites out, his voice wavering, cracking, fucked out in a daze, obvious about who he is and what he really wants. He kicks out of Steve’s hold and pushes his heel to Steve’s cheek, to push him over, to get him away from Billy, to grab a hold of his head and his thoughts before they runaway from him and out themselves.

Steve catches Billy’s foot.

“I could feel it, y’know?” Steve says with his lips pressed to Billy’s heel. Steve _bites_ him. Little sharp pricks to his heel. He pushes at Billy’s leg, bending his knee upwards towards his chest and Billy’s too caught up in Steve’s gaze to realize his shirt’s ridden up before it’s too late and everything is out there. “When you were going to town on my face. You got real excited, didn’t ya, Hargrove?”

“You’re fuckin’ dead.”

“Yeah, and then I’ll tell the whole school you’re a homo. I mean, I’ve got an excuse. You? What’s yours?” Steve bites the inside of Billy’s thigh, and Billy jerks, both hands flying up to tug at Steve’s hair and pull him off, grip him, hold him still so Billy can catch up.

Steve’s teeth have ripped through the nylons. The front of his jeans are tented.

“Who do you think they’d believe? Me or some queer from California?” Steve says quietly, eyes dropping to Billy’s crotch where his erection presses against the nylon, obvious and there and clearly _needy_ just like the rest of Billy. Stripped out in the open, there’s nowhere to hide.

Billy yanks his leg up and knees Steve in the nose and makes his exit from this mess by yanking on his jeans over the nylons and ignoring Steve’s pained _grunt_ and _what the hell, man?_.

Billy’s got a cigarette in his mouth and the keys to the ignition when Steve catches up to him, collar of his shirt tugged up to his nose to catch the blood. Red smears shiny across the lower half of his face, catching the light from the street lamps.

Without a word Steve leans down, arm on the camaro’s open window and sticks his head inside and the smell of copper and _Steve_ fills up the tiny space. Billy should’ve rolled it up. Gotten the hell out of dodge and put this night in with the rest of the bad memories he plans on forgetting instead of sitting around trying to find his lighter. He’s not above much right now and he’s got a trigger happy foot ready to run Steve over and burn his house down afterwards.

“You forgot this when you were fleeing.” Steve holds out the other half of the deal between two fingers.

Billy stares at the folded up cash, feels sick to his stomach, feels his face burn hot enough to ignite his cigarette.

Steve waves the cash around. A thin line of blood drips down his nose. He gets tired of waiting for Billy to take it, tucks it into the front pocket of Billy’s denim jacket. Gets fucking bloody fingerprints on him. Billy sits on his ass, watching him do it, smoke going limp between his lips.

Billy still has the nylons on. A soft and weird and horrible layer between him and familiar denim, keeping him on edge, keeping his dick hard despite the universe telling it to fuck off.

“My parents are gonna be gone this weekend.” Steve says. He pats the camaro with both hands. Then, after a pause, reaches inside and squeezes Billy’s thigh. Billy catches his wrist in a bruising grip, ready to snap it in half.

“Watch it, Harrington.” Billy bites out.

“Just thinking.” Steve’s easy and untroubled, shrugs.

Steve’s immune to Billy’s glares. Wears Billy’s hurt like it’s nothing. He wipes his dripping, bleeding nose on his shirt again, then, pulls out a lighter from his back pocket.

He flicks it open and it catches on the first spark. Billy does too. Neck going tight, the old pain from the needle makes him twinge, but he stays transfixed by that little flame and Steve’s hand coming so close to his face with no intention to hurt. Stays perfectly still as Steve lights Billy’s cigarette and before Billy’s scrapes enough thought in him to breathe, Steve plucks it right out of his mouth, takes a long drag, eyelashes fluttering and his purple-red lips pucker up pretty around the cig.

Steve leans back out the window to blow the smoke outside the camaro.

“I got some more stuff you can wear, so. We should do this again, yeah?” Steve says. Gives Billy’s thigh one last squeeze and Billy doesn’t break his wrist like he should, lets him go because it’d be worse if he can’t.

Steve doesn’t give the cigarette back.

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [Awrble](http://awrble.tumblr.com)  
>   
>   
> My [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)


End file.
